


to your spring and summer heart

by Ghostigos



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, POV Second Person, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 18:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19045603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: Moomintroll reflects on love in different periods of respite.





	to your spring and summer heart

**Author's Note:**

> ( _like singing while eden floods_ — let me find all of your dandelion secrets and i'll take their teeth out of your veins)
> 
> sticks leggy out. it's me, the one who makes everything Unnecessarily Complex and Maybe A Lil Sad
> 
> trans snufkin is heavily implied here, you can pry that hc from my cold hands. the 'implied sexual content' just refers to some discussions the protags have, but there's nothing overly explicit; it also ties to cultural alienation/road-blocks in xeno relationships. all that jazz.

**i.**

Once, when you were out picking some roses, there'd been a troublesome set of thorns that clung to your paw pads. You were much younger at the time, and you'd cried all the way back home, swaddled in Pappa's arms. As you sobbed, Mamma simply tore the vegetation away trapping you, then continued her venture on flower-picking after you were soothed.

At home, when you'd been bandaged up and given lemonade as solace, Mamma was quick to make room for the wildflowers atop the kitchen counter. The flowers that had gotten you all battered up in the first place.

You were rightfully angry with the roses, and had asked something along the lines of why Mamma even bothered with them.

She didn't seem offended at your tone; rather, she reached for the scissors in the top drawer with her tail upraised and complacent. "Sometimes things have to hurt, Moomintroll," she'd said. "And it'd be a shame to throw out these lovely flowers because of one little accident."

Then she leant downwards to give you a nuzzle on your forehead. "Sometimes, dear, the things that hurt us are worth it."

She said this like she wasn't talking to you, but rather an older version of you; one that might interpret her words in a different lighting, in a different time and place.

But for now you grow quiet and chew on her words, even if they're too big for your plate, and just grumble at your sore foot. Mamma just tells you to stop toying with your bandages as she cuts away the roses' thorns with clean, confident snips.

 

**ii.**

Snufkin's harmonic tune wallows through the thick summer air, like so many leaves and petals swept beyond by a passing breeze. You lay beside him, under this tree shielding you both from sunlight, and you are attentive to his every note. It's a song you haven't heard him perform before. At least, not for yourself.

A part of you envies this, because his craft is so unwavering that you know you're not his first audience to this piece. He has mentioned before that he'll encounter fellow travelers on his adventures, but assures you that no one sticks around enough for him to recall faces, or learn from their own journeys. Or so you think (and would like to think).

It has you asking him where he picked up this particular tune. Snufkin doesn't answer right away, and instead makes to finish his song. You're patient because you often are with him, and just lie in the grass to watch the clouds overhead. Even though Snufkin dawdles on notes a smidge too long, just enough for you to know that he's stalling.

Eventually he does pack away his instrument, and you ask again where he'd learned it. He pretends not to hear you.

You ask for a third time. Finally, he says with a crooked smile, "It's just one I happened to find."

It doesn't answer your question — not fully, and not how you'd wanted it answered. And it _does_ anger you sometimes, how he'll clam up like this about his ventures outside the valley. You had suspected that since you both are...compatible, now, that he wouldn't do this as much.

(And he doesn't. Or tries not to. But a selfish portion of you wishes for more and more and more with each passing year.)

You stomp your foot about it privately, because you feel as though you've _earned_ intrusion on Snufkin's privacy. And you yourself harbor no secrets, so it feels like an unbalanced playing field. Snufkin is your friend and your best friend and everything after, and would it _kill_ him to spit out some more of his tales?

It's hard to bite your tongue about this. But then Snufkin pulls out a particularly strong-smelling herb and begins to light it, so you let him be.

 

**iii.**

Snufkin is not soft. Not in the physical sense, anyhow; his fur is all prickly and matted compared to your own cloud-like physique. Even his paws are hard as rocks under your touch; you barely have to press down on his palms for his claws to unsheathe. He's naturally scruffy and his body is stony, unfit for comfort. He's also small: as the seasons grow, you watch him grow smaller and yourself grow taller. You forget this often, though, with how Snufkin holds himself like a tree guarding itself for storms.

You're gentle with Snufkin, you always are. You think he appreciates that more than he lets on, with how his skin will go a little red and there's a smile racing to the forefront every time you smother him with adoration. In his own ways is he considerate and kind, but it's not exactly worn on his sleeve. He considers this love you give him, testing its endurance, and retrieves his own form of it, but will grasp onto it uncertainly. Like if you seem hesitant he'll retreat into the forest at the drop of a hat and wallow there.

He's not _naturally_ gentle, at least, nor soft. But you don't believe he makes himself out to be cruel either.

You both are out one night stargazing; a meteor shower is pouring to the earth. Snufkin had suggested watching the show at his campsite, but after a while he'd grown weary and called in a night. He'd been having an awful sort of illness the past week — Mamma had already informed you that the illness can only be soothed, not outright cured — and you've been walking on eggshells trying to better his aches without being intrusive.

When you duck your head into his tent after, you see Snufkin curled into himself on the floor. Your first thought is that he's very cute and curly — with his tail looped around his form and hat discarded, displaying his dirtied locks cascading his scrunched face. Your second thought is blotted with worry, seeing his tail thwapping about in agitation.

You say a quick good night and make to escape the tent, to leave him be before he gets annoyed; he values his private hours so immensely that you feel like you're walking along minefields, especially during this time.

But then someone reaches out and grabs your tail, making you cry out in shock. You whip around to face your captor.

Snufkin's face is red and glossy, but guarded. Your familiarity with him recognizes this cloying neutrality as nothing more than manufactured. And peering past that, you realize that, _Ah, he truly is small._

He says, "Stay?" You don't know if it was meant to come out as a question.

For his sake, you take it at face value: as an amicable invitation with zero motives. You settle yourself next to him after zipping up the tent, and flump onto your backside, awaiting his consent. It comes without hesitation; your tails lock and Snufkin scoots himself closer to you after a few displeasured grunts.

It's as you're dozing off that you hear the rasps of a purr unlocking from his chest, loosening his structure even in fitful dreams.

You think in a fluster, _Oh, he is gentle too._

 

**iv.**

On a particularly rainy spring morning, you decide to declare your wish for children.

Of course, you know that your say is not final, but you think it's necessary for Snufkin to know how desperately you want this. You're past the age of seeking out a proper mate to settle with, and it's the time of year where mated Moomins are more likely to bear fruit. You're fortunate that you found a lover so early in your growth.

Snufkin grows quiet after you request this, and this quiet stretches for the rest of the day, and then the week, and the week following. Not that he makes an effort to actively ignore you when you cross paths, but his words come out slanted and artifical; a detached politeness. You don't ask him to explain, afraid that you've done something wrong, and instead brood over it rather childishly. Your parents offer nothing more than exchanged look upon your state.

You're finally prompted outside on a cool night by a note on your windowsill. You meet Snufkin halfway between his campsite and your house, like you always have. His silhouette in the field has you remarking how often you spend chasing after him, abandoning home for him. It's always a shock when you realize how far out you are when you encounter Snufkin, how long the walk back will be. How this gap between you both is still immeasurable, no matter how many times you'll catch up to him.

Snufkin's stare is pale and shaded by his hat, underneath this full moon and winking starlight. His posture is stiff like he's stuck twigs into his backside.

"I can't give you children," he says finally, voice steady and unwavering. Like the riverbank, there's fleeting fish underneath his tone that you're unable to capture.

"Oh," is all you can say. He's already turned and left for the woods.

 

**v.**

Through the books in Pappa's study, you find out more about Snufkin's species — and by extension, his parents. You discover that most mumriks and mymbles will mate purely for a warm body to bear their kin; their lovelife is usually static, if not nonexistent. You learn how Snufkin's bloodline yearns for him to continue this cycle. How maybe this is what makes him sick sometimes, inside and out.

You tell all of this to Pappa, who is reading a novel in the family room. He turns a page, eyes thoughtful, before he asks, "And what do you suppose to make of this?"

You slump next to him on the couch. "That nature is mean," you pout, crestfallen.

He peeks at you from the corner of his eye. "It's simply nature. Whether or not it's cruel is what we make of it," he says, "What Snufkin decides to do with his family line is up to him. I don't blame him for being so stuck on it: Mumriks are nomads, and Mymbles are settlers. Heaven knows what the Joxter is. Imagine his own frustrations!"

You do. You've seen his internal quarrels on it; his species has these desires and needs that are so foreign to yourself, and he scarfs this down often for your own sake. He knows you get uncomfortable in intimate situations: not because you're unwilling but because you're uncertain. And he'll often turn yourself down _for_ you, even if you promise not to be mad at his requests. You think he feels dirty compared to you: a Moomin that settles and reproduces for love, whereas he will travel and reproduce for survival.

It hurts. His nature is so secretive that it burns when you can't help him. You suppose he took personal offense at your offer for a family — maybe he mistook himself for a warm body and nothing more, and your request encouraged this thought.

You find Snufkin in his tent the next morning; he opens his mouth looking like he wants to say everything and nothing at all, but you scoop him into a hug so tightly it squeezes tears right out of you. You nuzzle Moomin kisses into his neck, his ear, his cheek — an invitation for forgiveness, for being naïve, for your participation in his sorrow.

You tell him that it's okay. He digs his claws into the scruff of your neck and says, thickly, "I know."

 

**iv.**

"This is the _worst!_ " you howl, flinging Mamma's pot across the room. You bury your paws into your eyes, scrubbing out your irritation and emitting it with a low whine.

"You're doing fine," Snufkin says from behind. He carries no impatience — perhaps more amusement at your reaction than anything, and doesn't _that_ just scratch your fur the wrong way too. He continues briskly, "Moominmamma wrote down clear instructions on the recipe, and all we need to do is follow."

You throw up your muzzle and groan at the ceiling. "Yes, but why are her instructions so _complicated?_ I thought stew was easy, and yet all these _steps._ "

"She put you in charge of this because she is certain that you're capable of it," Snufkin says, matter-of-fact; he abandons his kneading against the raw bread dough to come over and pick up a squash off the floor, which you'd thrown in your brief tantrum. "And _I_ know that you're capable of it as well."

You huff a little, but reach for the squash anyway. His ears wiggle a little, with a smile crimping sideways on his lips. 

"Would you like me to taste-test?" he offers.

You know it'll taste bad, but you hand over the ingredients you have anyways. You've pureed a good portion of the vegetables already, and the stove behind you is warming up. Snufkin merely dips his finger into the mush, the heathen, and licks it off with a thoughtful expression.

"More nutmeg should balance out the bland taste," he remarks. "But other than that it's fine."

"You're just saying that," you mumble, plopping your chin into your paws with a hefty groan. "You're telling me what I want to hear because you love me."

Snufkin pulls away one of your paws into both of his own, hopping up onto the counter and massaging your soft pads. He works into the bone so much that your claws unsheathe under his touch, and you worry that you might nick him accidentally. But his smile is only teasing and warm, with no wince of pain as he works.

"If I'd told you what you wanted to hear, I'd have simply said it's the best stew I've ever tasted," he answers.

"You're insulting me."

"I'm insulting your cooking," Snufkin replies, with a twinkle in his downcast eyes. His grin is colossal now, showing his fangs. "And I've eaten so many unholy meals, honeybee, that I'd suggest you listen to my complaints. The stew is bland: add more nutmeg."

"You're mean," you whine, snatching away your paw. But you do sprinkle in more nutmeg upon request, grumbling all the while. When you turn back to your partner he's hiding his mouth with his fingers, stifling a chuckle.

 

**iii.**

A while later, in a better state of mind, Snufkin sets down his coffee mug and explains, "Mumriks are not familial creatures, and we don't bear children to necessarily nurse them into adulthood. At a young age we're taught to fend for ourselves, and pushed out of homes as easily as a baby bird flying from the nest. We are not loving, but rather a bit on the feral side."

"Ah," you say over your own drink; you pretend like this isn't coming out of nowhere.

If Snufkin notices your bafflement, he ignores it. "Mymbles are the opposite. My genetics will produce a good half-dozen, at the least, and my chances of having only a single child are slim. Often one child after birth is labelled a bad omen, or it could be seen as worse then infertility. Since I'm half-mymble, my kind promises a large litter, but my half-mumrik nature may cause me to outright abandon them."

The pieces come together, slowly. You reach for Snufkin's hand, the one he isn't using to hoist up his lowered chin. "I see why you were nervous when I brought it up," you murmur to him, squeezing at his cracked pads. "Moomins...we aren't like that. We nurture perhaps to a fault, where it's hard for us to venture outside of our homes to mate or travel."

A thought pricks at your side suddenly, making you droop. "Did I make you uncomfortable again?"

"Hm? Oh, dearest, no, not on purpose." Snufkin is quick to press your paw to the side of his cheek in comfort. "You're right to inquire about private issues, I've given you permission to. _I'm_ the one to blame for making things so complicated. I'm...nomadic, in all things. I have two feet in very different places. I'm aware that I'm difficult."

"You don't mean to be," you argue, squeezing Snufkin's hand that's still entwined with your own. "I know you very well, Snufkin, and you know me! Just because we're different in nature doesn't make us incompatible."

"Mm," Snufkin murmurs, chewing on this. "My travels have told me that I'm quite alone in my bloodline, though. And my relations with a Moomin are...very odd as well. Given that I haven't met a single fellow traveler that is like us."

"That's what makes us special, though," you say warmly, smiling so brightly at his reddening expression. "Because what we have is rare and that's how I know it's good."

He doesn't reply right away, and time has taught you to not be mad about this. You finish your drink, admiring the view from your front porch, when Snufkin gives the meadow a small smile. It casts itself from the valley and into the mountains beyond.

“Indeed," he murmurs to no one.

 

**ii.**

You see Snufkin off on his journey on the first day of winter; the cold is settling in earlier than expected and warm milk is waiting for you at home. You have to say your goodbyes a bit faster than usual, but the words are still good and lovely in all the right ways. He promises that he'll come back, that he loves you, and departs with a Moomin kiss and then a Mumrik one.

Once you're inside and away from winter's grip, you melt next to the warmth of the fireplace, steamy mug in hand, as Little My slurps up a storm next to you with her own drink.

You call to Mamma from the kitchen, who's stirring orange peels into cinnamon-caked water on the stove, emitting a homey scent. She perks up, and you ask her, "How much does something have to hurt?"

Little My gives you a sideways glance from over her mug, and even Mamma expresses confusion. You abandon your cup next to the fire — even when you know it'll be empty due to its close proximity to Little My, when you return — and join your mother in the kitchen. You almost hop onto the counter like a kitten, in the way that Snufkin often does.

"When you clip the thorns away from the roses," you explain to her, "How often do you have to be stung before you decide to throw away the flowers?"

Mamma's gaze softens with a form of understanding that you yourself cannot mirror. She gives you a long Look, brimming with wisdom and maybe a bit of recollection upon the memory you're inferring to. She turns back to the stove to lower the heat a bit, ridding her paws of the citrus scent with a washcloth.

"I've never thrown away a single rose I've plucked," she says as she works, "because I picked them with purpose. And I often snip away the thorns before I get too battered. But even if I get upset at the wounds, I know that it's not the flowers' fault: they were made that way, you see, to protect themselves. They don't know of my good intentions."

You lean against the counter, rubbing the tips of your claws together. "I see..."

"I only cut off the thorns so that I can take better care of them," Mamma continues. "I don't want to be pricked every time I go to water them."

You look outside; snowflakes are beginning to dance to the forest floor, soon to encase the whole valley with frost. "So you don't regret getting hurt, then?"

"Not at all. I know that the flowers will be beautiful bouquets in the end, so I'm alright with it."

"Hm."

Little My's head pops up from the corner — as predicted, your cup is cusped into her hands. Her brow is raised. "Moomintroll, you're not planning on going to pick flowers _now,_ are you?"

You just shake your head, wistfully glancing outside again. "No," you murmur. "I'll wait until spring."

Little My gives you one last weird glare, then shrugs and walks away. Mamma's gaze is loving as she pats your head and instructs you to help her chop up some garlic for tonight's dinner.

 

**i.**

Your heartbeat is lodged in your throat and you're thinking of turning tail once you spot Snufkin trotting through the woods. His naivety to what you're about to do is somehow even more terrifying; you feel like you're taking normality and stomping all over it. But what better time to do than than right now, you think, at this spot no less?

Snufkin looks a bit confused to see your state — you must be sweating from every pore based on how damp your fur feels, and your tail is projecting more anxiety than you wish it would, with how it swishes so ferociously. He reaches forward for an embrace, and immediately you drop to your knees before him, shoving the bouquet you've been squeezing to death in your arms into his own. He marvels at the collection you've gathered — daffodil, clovenlip, bellflower, and gorse all ripe and fresh from the soil. They're small since they're newborn, but you hope the gesture comes across just the same.

He's already a bit red in the face from the gift, stuttering out his gratitude, and then you unfurl the final gift from your paw pad. A single red rose petal: it's crinkly and stale, possibly a corpse from last year's harvest. Since it's so delicate, you gingerly hold it out to him.

"Marry me?" you ask.

You'd meant to sound a bit more formal, having planned out a whole monologue of affection in the winter months, but the words slip and crack as the world drinks your proposal in. Snufkin's face is already so wide-eyed you fail to elaborate under his bugged stare. His face slowly gains more color as he clutches the bouquet with shaky paws, tail twitching behind him, ears drooping in surprise.

Your face is hot and you feel as though you could be struck by lightning and wouldn't mind in the slightest. Humiliation is further highlighted by the fact that you're holding up a dead rose petal like an imbecile.

But then Snufkin's eyes shine and it matches his growing smile. It's a shy smile, one he doesn't wear too often. And then he adjusts himself so that he may get on his knees to join you, meeting your eyes at the same height. He props his hat up so the sunlight catches his face, illuminating the bright pink of his cheeks and nose.

When he reaches out to clasp your paws, encasing the stray petal in his palms and your own, you hold your breath as he makes to speak.

**Author's Note:**

> For the folks at home:
> 
> roses (red, thornless) — true love, love at first sight  
> daffodil — new beginnings, return my affection, uncertainty  
> clovenlip — please notice my feelings for you  
> bellflower — unwavering love  
> gorse — love in all seasons


End file.
